


Filling of holes

by Nilysil



Category: Warframe
Genre: Combi-genitalia, Feral Warframe, Mawframe, Non-Human Genitalia, Non-canon biology, Other, Self-Bondage, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-18 01:17:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7293595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilysil/pseuds/Nilysil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After scrounging for a meal a Hydroid returns to its alcove, where he entertains himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filling of holes

Serrated claws dig into gore, scratching at old metals and replicated organs. Meat; he’s searching for meat. Beneath him a grineer lies dead, their armor shredded and their cybernetic joints torn. All that he has to scavenge is a torso and a part of a leg, the rest of the meat has already been taken. A feral kubrow limps a short distance away, its coat muddy and muzzle bloodied. It waits, pacing around the carcass and the scavenger. It growls.

Soma scratches at a bolt hidden among a strip of scavenged flesh. Rotten. He picks for another, scratching muscles from bone and wires. Maggots have already took to whatever remained of the grineer’s face, leaving half a mask behind on a wire frame. Behind him the kubrow growls again, making false lunges to the hydroid’s back. A rumble rolls through the warframe’s chest, its sight turned to the weakened kubrow. It doesn’t back down.

It takes a step closer to the hydroid with fangs bared, knelt down in a possible lunge.

A dark bolt strikes the kubrow through the ribs and it crumbles to the dried riverbed. Dead.

 

The creases of Soma’s maw crack open. Meat.

He fills himself with the scraps of the kubrow’s fresh flesh before he leaves.

In the horizon of early dawn he makes his way back to his lair, weaving through raised roots and month of wreckage – the fumes still fresh. He works himself farther from the grinds of grineer outposts, ducking low beneath thick shadows as patrols hover through the titanic trees.

Eventually he finds his way back ‘home’. An alcove carved beneath a titanic tree, an area surrounded by damp mud and a shallow river. Soma lands in the shallow river in a short burst of inky fluid, returning to a solid form shortly thereafter; a silent landing. Along the riverbed he brushes away lingering footsteps with a flick of his wrist, forcing water from the river into the gaps he leaves in the mud. At the alcove he sits, staring off into nothing.

Just another day…

For a while he just sits there, looking off to wherever his sight takes him.

Always quiet, except for the distant rumbles of Grineer machines.

Soma grunts. He’s got nothing else better to do. Within his left hand he pulls energy out of the world around him and crushes it in his hand. A summon.

Behind him two dark tentacles form from the shadows and latch themselves around his wrists, pulling his arms back and over his head. Soma lies down, breathing in deep. He pulls against the tentacles ever so slightly, letting them adjust and to tangle themselves around his arms until he can move them no more. Held back against the dirt wall Soma adjusts his position, shifting for a comfortable position that leaves his legs splayed and thighs wide.

Another summoned tentacle materializes off to his side, it’s white pad pawing around his metallic coat for hidden vents. Another joins the search soon after, making its way around his other side and over the spires jutting out of the hydroid’s waist. He leans his head back against the soil behind him, a partial sigh. More begin making their presence known, teasing around his seams for the hidden vents, their pads slick with ichor and cold water.

At his chest one tentacle manages to find an opening seam, it paws helplessly at the splitting seam and trails fluid across the lip of the seam and the opening vent. Some others had also made progress, finding their own spots to tease and make his skin crawl. One manages to find a split in one of his four spires, wiggling its way into the small opening and dances across his inner tendrils. It writhes within the spire’s vent, rubbing against his tender tendrils in flickering spasms. Barely a sound rolls through the hydroid, still lying relaxed against the earth beneath him. There is only a hint of reaction; a motion in his arms.

Eventually another makes progress, moving across the opening seam before it slides itself in, welcomed by his inner tendrils. With each smooth entry comes a twitch, barely a sound, a huffed sigh. They move around inside him, brushing against his inner tendrils in their own searches for something more, something hard, something… sensitive.

None find their spots just yet as more materialized tendrils make their way over his body, searching for their own temporary burrows in his body. Patting at filled pockets of flesh, they writhe around the ones already inside him. They stop when his form jolts – one found their mark.

The tentacle at his left front spire found it’s mark, a spot far down into his side. At the jolt the tentacle pauses, waits for him to be still again, and repeats. Over and over the tentacle flicks at the spot, eventually forming a low groan from the Hydroid’s chest. Soma leans over into the flicks within his side, farther over to his left and holds himself there with a folded right, his front fins lying against the ground.

Another tentacle finds their own mark, coiling and rolling against the sensitive bundle hidden within his mass of inner tendrils. Others soon find their own soon after, leaving him writhing on the ground and pulling against the self-made restraints. Behind his right foot a new tentacle forms and twists around his limb, locking him and his leg in place. A grumbling whine bubbles up Soma’s throat; a crackling white seam forms on the sides of his head, his opening maw.

The tentacles within their burrows slow and sync into waves, rolling from his chest and down through his core. Splits of white shape at his exposed thighs, free tentacles move themselves in and sync to the rhymical pumping. A low growl slips through exposed fangs and rolls into a groan, burying his face into his bound arms.

Again and again the tentacles form waves through his senses, rolling from chest to legs, chest to legs; his body rolls along with them, his hip rolling through the wave. With an open groan he summons another set – he’s ready.

A tentacle from the ceiling replaces the one coiled around his right leg. It lifts his leg up to an angle away from the ground, exposing his open slit beneath his front fins. Another tentacle coils at his other knee, holding him close against the ground save for the bits of wiggle room. Tentacles left over by the first summon crawl their way down to his hips and thighs, dancing across his skin ever so gently. They don’t touch his slit but dance around it, tickling at the junction of his pelvis and fin.

A thick tentacle snakes out of the ground between his legs.

It starts at his thighs, trailing its length against the inner sides as it clears away the smaller tentacles, batting at them with its tapered tip. Upward it snakes between his front fins, pressing its underside against his slit before it moves back and forth, rubbing at the peering inner tendrils with a ripple underside. Soma breathes out at the motions, pressing himself up against the teasing. The waves within him have not stopped.

It rubs against his slit a few more times before it moves itself away, coiling over itself to angle itself below his open slit. A shaky huff, a settling of breath, Soma lets his arms and legs go lax, the wave settles to occasional pulses. It moves up to his slit and the dancing inner tendrils.

The thick tentacle nudges itself softly against the white tendrils of his slit, easing itself into his lower cavity. A whine, a groan, Soma’s maw hangs open, mouth tendrils curling outward. His head stays rested against his captive arms, light sounds slipping from his throat. It moves against his inner walls in a circular motion, one repeated by the ones already buried within him. Around, and around, it swirls, the tip weaving itself through his inner tendrils in its own search.

As it does another tentacle emerges, at the base of the thick one it emerges and follows the first, twisting around to be on top of the moving tentacle before slipping into his slip. Soma whimpers, pressing up against the duo moved within him. The first doesn’t slow its movements as the second pushes itself in, but it abandons its search for something else – prodding at his walls. It doesn’t take long for the second tentacle to find its place inside him, against a spot similar to the areas hidden among his other seams and vents.

It pats at it, the hydroid responds in whimpers, leaning up the best he can against the bindings of the tentacles at his arms and legs, and the ones buried within him. The second coils over the spot as the first continues its search, nudging endlessly against his inner walls for another spot or a hidden internal vent. In time, as the tentacles within him start another wave, it gives up on its search and coils up just inside the slit and secures itself.

From the base of the first tentacle comes a bulge, a movement of mass that moves up the dark length and against his slit. The hydroid whimpers as the mass presses against it, moving back and forth to encourage a larger opening for it to move through. The tentacle moves back and forth, in and against his slit in sync with the repeating waves. Growling groans and whimpering whines spill through the hydroid’s maw, unable to hold back on the barrage all over him.

The swollen mass of the tentacle pops itself in, Soma whimpers through a gasp.

Another bulge forms at the base of the first tentacle, followed by another and another.

Each swollen bulge repeats the cycle; press against his slip, tentacle thrusting, it eventually sneaks itself in. Over and over it repeats, extending the first with each bulb of mass. It remains in a coil with each expansion until there is no more room for the large tentacle to fit. By then the hydroid has gone silent, having exhausted his throat. All he can muster is soft ‘mh’s ever so often, coated in seemingly unending waves of pleasure.

And when he’s had enough, spent of all of his energy, the tentacles slowly withdraw from their burrows in his skin. The ones around his arms and legs release him. The thick tentacle well buried between his legs takes its time uncoil from within him. As he waits for it to withdraw completely he lays back with his hands held over his maw, where even deep pants leave him. When the last of the tentacle lives he twitches, finally freed of his self-pleasure session.

Across his legs, his sides, his arms, mud and dirt stick against his damp skin. Soma makes a swipe motion with one hand over a patch of mud sticking to his leg – nothing. He sighs and lays back against the mud. 

Out of energy.


End file.
